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The Silence in My Headphones
The Silence in My Headphones is an original short story by Gwen. The narrator describes a particularly disturbing series of experiences involving idle headphones. The Silence in My Headphones I listen to music all the time, no matter what I'm doing. Even if there are other people around or I'm in public, I still have headphones in my ears. I always have headphones in my ears. I like to listen to Pandora Internet Radio on my phone, but I've done it so often in last few months that my phone battery really sucks. Now I can't really listen to Pandora on my phone unless it's on its charger. When I can't do that, however, I just put my headphones into my MP3 player. The selection is limited to the roughly 200 songs I have on the little 2 GB player, but it's much better than the sounds -- or lack thereof -- outside my own little world. I work in a secluded office where laptops are taken apart and their parts are sold online. The salvagers break them down to their smallest pieces and put them in a bin. I, along with the rest of the listers, take those bins, identify the parts, and update our stock online. Then we pass the parts along to the shipping department so they can be sent to the buyers. Since we don't really work with customers in person, there isn't a strict code of conduct like there is at most entry-level jobs. No dress code, no strictly scheduled lunches, not even language boundaries. As you can imagine, I was super excited when I learned that I could listen to music from my computer as long as I used my headphones. At first, I just listened to Pandora, as usual, but one afternoon between songs, I heard something interesting coming out of the speakers of my boss's computer. I noticed that my coworkers, two women who were usually just as engrossed in their music as I was, had their headphones off and seemed to be listening intently to the smooth voice emerging from the speakers across the room. I took off my headphones and realized as I listened that this was what my supervisor, Amanda, had called The Nosleep Podcast. She'd mentioned it during my training, that every other Monday, a new episode of this podcast was released, and everyone in our department enjoyed the stories that were narrated on the show. She warned me that the stories being read fell into categories like horror, suspense, or psychological thrillers, in case that would make me uneasy, but I actually really enjoy those genres of movies and novels. Conveniently, when I took off my headphones that afternoon, a new story was just beginning. I would later find out that it was "When Your World Falls Apart," by Anton Scheller, from episode nineteen of season two. While the story itself was somewhat upsetting -- I love children, and this particular story involved a mother finding her children's pieces in her garden -- I was impressed with the superb writing and the enrapturing narration. When the episode was finished, I asked Amanda how I could listen to more. "They have a website now, thenosleeppodcast.com," she told me. "It'll be awesome once you're caught up. Everyone here, even some in the other departments, listens to it." I quickly typed the address into the URL bar and switched my headphones from my phone to the computer's tower. I played the same episode first so I could hear the first two stories. It helped the time go by much faster, being lost in the world weaved for me by the writers and narrators of The Nosleep Podcast. From that afternoon on, I listened to the podcast everyday, going backwards from episode nineteen. I finished two or three per day at least, and I knew I'd be finished with it soon. Still, the producer, David Cummings, was kind enough to recommend a couple other podcasts that also narrated horror stories. Being an amateur writer myself, I even started writing short stories and poems for the monthly contests. One very ordinary afternoon, I finished an episode of The Nosleep Podcast about eight minutes before one of our scheduled department breaks. There was little point in starting another episode before the break, so I took my headphones off and steadied them on the tape dispenser next to me so they wouldn't fall to the floor. The room was very quiet, seeing as most of the listers preferred to work with their headphones on. Sometimes music from Amanda's speakers broke the thin silence in the room, but she was out sick that day, which was a sadly common occurrence. The silence I was so unaccustomed to rang in my ears as I continued my habitual labeling and listing of this and that little computer part. It was only because of the silence that I heard the soft crackling coming from something on the desk, near the tape dispenser. I paused and leaned closer to hear a faint static coming from my headphones, starting for a fraction of a second and then stopping again. It happened three or four times, the duration of it slowly increasing, before Omar's voice startled me. "Ready for break?" he asked, as he always did at exactly 2:15pm. "Yeah," I replied quickly, rubbing my sore neck a bit as I stood and headed toward the back. Our breaks were always spent out back, chatting while various coworkers smoked their cigarettes. Our department was very small, and a couple other people joined us at times, but there were usually no more than six or seven people in our chatty circle for the fifteen minute break. "So," I started when the last topic came to a close, "I've been listening to The Nosleep Podcast almost constantly. I even had a dream about it last night." Omar cocked an eyebrow. "Ironic," he said simply. I chuckled and nodded. "What did you dream about?" Katie asked. "Remember the Plot Holes one? The one where the protagonist notices some shade things fixing inconsistencies in reality?" "Yeah," Katie replied, accompanying acknowledgements of recognition from the others. "I had a dream that I was watching that story actually unfold. Like, I saw them actually erase someone. It was pretty cool. I might even have been one of the shades, I'm not sure." Katie released a breath of smoke from her lips and nodded. "Good thing you weren't one of the humans in the story, or they might have turned to you next." "Right," I chuckled. "Also a good thing that I didn't dream about any of the more realistic stories. The realistic ones, like the things that really do happen, murders and stuff, those freak me out a lot more. A dream about one of those would definitely be a bona fide nightmare." Drew, the inventory clerk that usually took his breaks with us, replied, "Yeah, but remember the last line from the Plot Holes one?" "Yeah," I said thoughtfully. "'You've just found your first plot hole. Pray you don't see any more.' Something like that, at least." Despite that the story wasn't really realistic, those last lines still stuck with me, as the last lines of spooky stories often do. The conversation continued about various stories we'd heard on the podcast, some of which I didn't recognize because I wasn't that far back yet. I zoned out towards the end, remembering other lines from various stories that gave me chills. Those chills were satisfying, for some reason that no horror fan I've ever met has been able to explain. I started listening to the next episode when I got back to my desk. I vaguely remembered hearing something strange from my headphones, but I chucked it up to the last episode having not quite ended when I took them off. I may have forgotten the phenomenon completely had it not happened again a week or so later. An episode ended on a particularly unnerving note, and I lay the headphones next to me rather than continue to listen. I didn't like to continue listening after a story left me unusually shaken. This one was about a robot that followed its creator to her house after learning that he would be disassembled. The idea of a robot, even one with artificial intelligence, developing such distinct emotions as anger, resentment, and betrayal was very unsettling to me. The room was quiet that day, too. Amanda was engrossed in her work, focusing too hard to care for music. And, as usual, Katie and Amber had their headphones on. I was still replaying the lines from the story in my head, deftly bagging and labeling tiny electronics, when a sound from my headphones almost made me jump. It was a soft pop, like when a home recording first starts. I pressed the right piece into my ear and listened to the soft static you can hear when you're listening to recorded silence. The eerie silence didn't help my uneasiness, so I clicked back to the open tab where The Nosleep Podcast should be waiting for me to click the link at the bottom for the next episode. I glanced nervously at the flash player embedded on the page and noticed that the largest button on it displayed the triangle on it for "play." That meant that nothing was currently playing. My heartbeat quickened as I clicked the link to the next episode I had not yet heard. The silence I was listening to in my right ear seemed to get louder and louder, along with the pounding in my chest, as I stared at the loading bar at the top of the Google Chrome browser. When the page fully loaded, I clicked the play button on the flash player as fast as I could get the mouse to it. The next few seconds passed in slow motion as the din in my ear seemed to echo throughout the room, and I watched the counter on the player switch from 00:00:01 to 00:00:02. Then, what seemed like minutes later, 00:00:02 to 00:00:03. The theme music for The Nosleep Podcast was surprisingly soft when it finally broke the deafening silence. I glanced at the volume meter on the computer. Twenty percent, the default level the computer started at that I rarely changed. I pulled it down to 15% and concentrated hard on slowing my heartbeat and stopping my shaking. David eased me into a new, silentless world, and I felt my muscles loosen and my mind settle in for a new adventure that must surely be less horrific than the silent headphones. While the last experience was easy to wave off, I couldn't shake that one. For days afterwards, I got nervous when my headphones went silent for too long, like when Pandora was loading the next song or there was an unusual pause at the end of a song on my MP3 player. I even started developing the habit of taking my headphones out of my ears before I stopped the music. It must have been less than a week later that I next heard the silence. I was on the bus on my way to work. I usually dozed off on my way to work, since the bus ride was at least an hour long and it was only 6:30 in the morning. I had charged my phone overnight, so it held on to Pandora for a little while this morning. I let the soft sounds of Snow Patrol lull me into an easy doze for a few moments. I didn't notice much when the distant sounds of music ended. But I noticed the pop. That noise made me jump in my seat, startling the middle-aged woman next to me. I smiled apologetically, but something about my expression unnerved her because she nodded nervously and switched seats. I grabbed for my phone for an explanation to the silence that quickly grew in my ears. The stupid screen kept switching on and off because I pressed the button twice with my shaking hand. Pressing it firmly a third time, I then proceeded to try and fail to unlock my phone. Thankfully, when I finally got it open, the Pandora application was already pulled up on the phone's screen. "Are you still listening?" the text asked me. I reached a trembling finger for the "I'm still listening" button when the silence in my headphones ended. "Are you still listening?" asked a soft, childlike voice that sent ripples through my entire nervous system. I let out a small scream and yanked my headphones out of my ears. The middle-aged lady who'd changed seats looked over at me nervously, along with a couple other nearby passengers, as I painted breathlessly and listened to the comforting roar of the bus's engine. I didn't put my headphones in for the rest of the day. I requested that Amanda play music from her computer. I told her my headphones were broken. It wasn't exactly untrue. Functional headphones don't ask you if you're listening. I didn't tell anyone about the experience. I started to convince myself that the child's voice was just a hallucination. I had had auditory hallucinations before, albeit when I was much younger, before the years of therapy and the prescription of anti-psychotics. I resolved that if I heard it again, I'd tell my physician and ask for a stronger dose of olanzapine. I played my music aloud that night, charging my phone next to my bed. I bought Pandora One so that the "Are you listening?" screen came on less frequently, hopefully long after I had fallen into a deep slumber. I dream quite frequently, so I even dared to hope for a loud adventure in the world of my subconscience. But I didn't dream of whimsical music or boisterous voices or deep laughter. I didn't even dream of haunting sounds or soft voices or resounding sobs. I dreamed of silence. When I woke, I felt as though I hadn't even slept. I was relieved to hear music when I woke, though, still playing softly from my phone. I might have been more impressed with the length of time it had been playing if I hadn't been so exhausted. I let it continue to play as I dressed and put on my makeup. As I was putting on my shoes to leave, I realized that the music had stopped. I looked at my phone anxiously, carefully unlocked the screen, and looked at the Pandora application. "Are you still listening?" the text asked me silently. No voice came over the speakers. I waited for it, for the pop. It didn't come. I watched my fingers stop shaking and gently tapped the "I'm still listening" button. After a moment of buffering, the music resumed. I couldn't help the deep breath of relief. I listened to the music play aloud while I walked to the bus stop. I hesitated to continue on the bus because the rules of the Lynx bus system specifically demand that passengers not listen to music without headphones. I got onto the bus with my phone still playing music on its lowest possible volume. I gave the bus driver a friendly, hopeful smile as I slid my bus pass along the reader. He raised a disapproving eyebrow at me. I quickly averted my gaze and took a seat in the sparsely occupied back of the bus. It didn't take long for the bus to fill with various people on their way to work or class or some other early morning appointment. The front of the bus got crowded, and people started to amble down to the back seats. Finally, an older gentleman glanced at me with a scowl and mumbled something akin to, "have a little courtesy." With an inward sigh, I pulled my headphones out of my pocket. I tried not to hesitate as much as I wanted to. I plunged the output jack of my headphones into the audio port of my phone and waited for the music to spark to life in them before I carefully placed each piece into my ears. It took almost the whole bus ride for me to relax. For every small silence that passed between songs, uninterrupted by any childlike voices, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen just a little bit more. The bus finally arrived at my stop, and I got a little more anxious when I could no longer hear the bus's loud engine. I realized that I had been depending on that sound to break any unnatural silences in my headphones. But as I walked to my office building, I gained confidence with every moment that continued without any disturbing questions from creepy voices. Maybe it really was just a hallucination. It was easier to convince myself of that when I got to the office and started work, listening to David, Chris, and the other narrators of The Nosleep Podcast recite beautifully constructed stories of horrors that were decidedly different from the one I'd experienced in reality. I had managed to become completely engrossed in a story about cannibalism, mindlessly listing an Asus that had come in the day prior. It was almost time for the 2:15 break, and I had gone the whole morning and earlier afternoon without any strange occurrences. The story "The Secret Ingredient" was nearing its climax when the recording suddenly and inexplicably stopped. I think my heart may have stopped with it. When the familiar pop sounded in my headphones, my heart started up again with a painful pounding in my chest. I was frozen stiff with fear as the silence stretched on for what seemed like hours, though it must have only been a few seconds. "ARE YOU STILL LISTENING?" screamed a sharp, harpy-like voice in my ears. My body was shocked out of its frozen terror, and I couldn't contain the full-voiced shout that errupted from my throat. I ripped my headphones out of my ears with such force that it was painful. They fell to the floor, and I stared at them there. Amanda and my other coworkers were quick to ask me if everything was okay, startled by my shout that had broken the office's usual quiet. But all I could hear were the shouts still echoing in my headphones, so loud that I could hear them even with the ear pieces on the ground over a foot away. They were ranging from booming, deep shouts to shrill, terrified shrieks. As they grew louder still -- the girls were starting to quiet and inquire in whispers about the strange sounds -- I checked the speaker volume on the computer. Twenty percent. I checked the flash player on The Nosleep Podcast website. Paused. The fear was pumping through every vein in my body, and the screams from my headphones were accompanied by the roaring of blood in my ears. Finally, in a frenzied panic, I tore the output jack of the headphones from the computer tower's audio port. Silence filled the room. Thick, unpenetrated silence that could be sliced with a knife. Then, the sound that poured ice water into my veins. Pop. I listened with my coworkers as the seconds creeped by. Softly, a child whispered, "Are you still listening?" In stark contrast to the icy terror of the pop, that voice, with which all of this had begun, sent firey anger into my nerves. I dove under the desk and, with a roar of fury tearing from my throat, yanked the power cable of the computer from the surge protector that gave it life. The unnatural silence stopped. Everything stopped. My coworkers were frozen, staring alternately at me and then the computer. The only sound was my breathing, heavy and labored from the intense stress of the experience. I don't use headphones anymore. When I wake up in the morning, I listen to the fan of the air conditioner. When I take a shower, I listen to the water hit the tub's basin. When I walk to the bus stop, I listen to the din of traffic. When I ride the bus, I listen to its reliable, trustworthy engine. When I walk to work from the bus stop, I hum familiar tunes to myself. When I work, I listen to the clicks of keyboards. When I walk to the bus stop from work, I hum the same tune I hummed that morning. When I ride the bus home, I savor the roar of that engine. When I walk home from the bus stop, I listen to the cars fly by. When I get home, I turn on the television or listen to music aloud. Sometimes I turn on my laptop and even play The Nosleep Podcast. And when I go to bed, I listen to the soft whoosh of air circulation once more. But when I dream, I don't hear sounds anymore. Even if I watch adventures unfold and scenes come to life, beautiful visions of my subconscience. Even if I watch horrors come true and fears become reality, reflections of my own true terrors. All I ever hear in my sleep is the silence in my headphones.